


By The Light Of A Scented Candle

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Really LIGHT genital torture, Dom/sub, F/M, Genital Torture, Masochism, Pain, Painplay, Sadism, Wax Play, though) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:19:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4516413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wax play. Adlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By The Light Of A Scented Candle

The wax drips steadily, and with every droplet on the skin of his back, Sherlock draws in a breathy little noise. The wax is _hot_ , and when it hits the flesh it burns for a second before it begins to cool and stick close to him.

It's dyed red, the candle wax, and Sherlock wants to see how it looks, dried and caked to his skin in pretty drips, but he can't look, not now: his arms are tied above his head ( _like they were in Serbia_ ) but his legs are free, and Sherlock knees, head bowed ( _like he did in Serbia_ ) as Irene stands behind him.

“Do you like this, Sherlock?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock replies, even as she drips the stuff down the length of his spine and burning, tingling heat sings all through his body: he loves this, _loves_ it, loves feeling high without ever taking anything but Irene's orders.

“And are you _bored_?” It's asked with a deliberate tone, and the wax drips lower, right at the bottom of his spine so that it slides heatedly between the cheeks of his arse, and this time he moans properly, pressing his face into his own left arm as his knees _quake_. It's not pain, not really, so much as it is pure sensation, and it truly does electrify him.

“No.”

She smacks his arse hard, knocking against cooling wax, and he lets out a groan.

“No, _Ma'am_ ,”

“I do love it when you call me that,” Irene murmurs, letting more wax fall down the flesh of his buttocks, and he heaves in little gasps as she does so, unable to focus on anything but the heated sensation, the dried wax clinging to his back and to his backside, the sound of her breathing behind him. She comes forwards, and he feels her body against his own, standing on tiptoes so she can lay her chin on his shoulder and look down at his chest, her breasts pressed warm against his back.

“You're close,” Sherlock comments, and Irene chuckles. She holds up the candle, red and radiating a pleasant, mild scent of chicory, and Sherlock looks at the flickering light with a sort of trepidation. His chest feels tight as he watches the warm, red liquid collect beside the flame, and he breathes in, leaning back against her as if to escape any spillage.

“Better to aim with, my dear.”

“Aim?” Sherlock repeats the word as if he doesn't know what she means, but he can feel her gazing down at his cock: it's hard between his legs, glistening wet at the head and bobbing as Sherlock inhales and exhales. He _always_ gets hard when she has him like this, but somehow the idea of that thick red touching his cock excites him, **scares** him, and he all but shivers – he doesn't feel fear very often, any more.

“May I?” Irene asks softly, and Sherlock nods despite himself, despite the fact that his body is frozen and his mind won't work on anything but Irene's body against his own and the candle hovering ominously over him.

Irene tilts the candle.

The first few drops miss, settling onto the plain floor before Sherlock's feet, but the next one does, and Sherlock tilts back his head, letting out a _whine_ that echoes from the back of his throat as he feels the devastating heat over the length of his cock – it hurts, _God_ it hurts, but it hurts in a satisfying way so few things do, these days. It keeps going, keeps **burning** , and then she stops, and Sherlock breathes for the first time since she'd started.

“Enough?”

“ _Never_.” Irene laughs, and she undoes the buckles holding his arms above his head with a flick of her clever fingers, coaxing him to drop to his knees on the ground, and the wraps her arms around his waist, the candle set aside for now. He feels hot and cold all over, and satisfaction is sinking slowly into his every limb. “The knife?” he asks quietly.

“Mmm,” Irene agrees: the knife is a necessity with this game of theirs. The wax drips hot, and she draws it off again with the edge of a knife – it's not too sharp, Sherlock doesn't think, but he likes to imagine it is. “Before, though--” And she reaches around him, drawing her hand around his cock and fisting the length of it slowly, pressing the drying wax against his skin as she does so; he lets out a little noise, unable to hold it back, and he presses his face against the side of hers even as he cants his hips up into the touch. “Slut,” Irene murmurs with affection.

“Not true,” Sherlock maintains.

“ _Brat_ ,” Irene retorts, and he grins, the smile faltering when she pinches at a piece and makes him _squirm_.

“Yes,” Sherlock says in a halting, gasping fashion, and does his best to relax as Irene stops his thoughts again.

 


End file.
